Books Fatal to Their Authors

Fatal to Their Authors, by P. H.
Ditchfield

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Title: Books Fatal to Their Authors
Author: P. H. Ditchfield
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BOOKS FATAL TO THEIR AUTHORS
BY P. H. DITCHFIELD

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN WALTER, ESQ., M.A., J.P., OF
BEARWOOD, BERKS, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY AND
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

PREFACE.
TO THE BOOK-LOVER.
To record the woes of authors and to discourse de libris fatalibus seems
deliberately to court the displeasure of that fickle mistress who presides
over the destinies of writers and their works. Fortune awaits the
aspiring scribe with many wiles, and oft treats him sorely. If she enrich
any, it is but to make them subject of her sport. If she raise others, it is
but to pleasure herself with their ruins. What she adorned but yesterday
is to-day her pastime, and if we now permit her to adorn and crown us,

we must to-morrow suffer her to crush and tear us to pieces. To-day
her sovereign power is limited: she can but let loose a host of angry
critics upon us; she can but scoff at us, take away our literary
reputation, and turn away the eyes of a public as fickle as herself from
our pages. Surely that were hard enough! Can Fortune pluck a more
galling dart from her quiver, and dip the point in more envenomed
bitterness? Yes, those whose hard lot is here recorded have suffered
more terrible wounds than these. They have lost liberty, and even life,
on account of their works. The cherished offspring of their brains have,
like unnatural children, turned against their parents, causing them to
be put to death.
Fools many of them--nay, it is surprising how many of this illustrious
family have peopled the world, and they can boast of many authors'
names which figure on their genealogical tree--men who might have
lived happy, contented, and useful lives were it not for their insane
cacoethes scribendi. And hereby they show their folly. If only they had
been content to write plain and ordinary commonplaces which every
one believed, and which caused every honest fellow who had a grain of
sense in his head to exclaim, "How true that is!" all would have been
well. But they must needs write something original, something different
from other men's thoughts; and immediately the censors and critics
began to spy out heresy, or laxity of morals, and the fools were dealt
with according to their folly. There used to be special houses of
correction in those days, mad- houses built upon an approved system,
for the special treatment of cases of this kind; mediaeval dungeons, an
occasional application of the rack, and other gentle instruments of
torture of an inventive age, were wonderfully efficacious in curing a
man of his folly. Nor was there any special limit to the time during
which the treatment lasted. And in case of a dangerous fit of folly, there
were always a few faggots ready, or a sharpened axe, to put a finishing
stroke to other and more gentle remedies.
One species of folly was especially effective in procuring the attention
of the critics of the day, and that was satirical writing. They could not
tolerate that style--no, not for a moment; and many an author has had
his cap and bells, aye, and the lining too, severed from the rest of his

motley, simply because he would go and play with Satyrs instead of
keeping company with plain and simple folk.
Far separated from the crowd of fools, save only in their